


Pictures Of His Soul

by Wyrdmazer



Series: Translated Works [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Casual, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Photography, Sexual Content, aesthetic, short and sweet, you can draw these if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23260282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wyrdmazer/pseuds/Wyrdmazer
Summary: Love towards something fills us with the desire to explore it. There are so many ways to do that; photography is one.
Relationships: Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Series: Translated Works [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/933672
Kudos: 23





	Pictures Of His Soul

**Author's Note:**

> In the short part at the very end the text in italics is Scorpius, and the non-italicized text is Albus. (EkhmcozScorpiusisbentAFekhm).

Pink lips are stained with sweet, scarlet juice. He licks his fingers clean, eyelids fluttering closed as he delights in the taste. Summer shimmers in his hair; they're golden, warm and fluffy. He feels an intent gaze on him. It's vibrant like the leaves that surround him, and brings a flush to his creamy skin. His long fingers comb his hair back to expose his face to the gentle breeze that plays with his locks.

Challenge dances in his pupils. He smirks. And reaches for another strawberry.

* * *

Cloudy eyes sweep over the forest on the horizon. Cold wind prickles his bare skin; he hugs himself, squinting against it. Fading bruises on his hips paint a memory of sweaty, possessive hands and ragged breaths. There's another, angry bruise on his inner thigh. White streaks drip down his long legs. His lips are chapped, bitten. Red like ruby. Hot like blood that can't quite keep him warm.

His heartbeat is sluggish, mirroring in his irises.

Clouds, clouds, clouds.

Raindrop splashes on his cheek.

drop

drop

He smiles. Because the forest is so green and the wind pulls calming music from its mysterious depths while strong hands pull a shaky breath from his bruised lips.

He belongs there. He's wild.

He's ready to lose himself. Again.

* * *

He's a shadow against the night filled with moonlight. He moves with fire, with uninhibited passion, his hands tangle in black locks as he tries to see through the thick darkness, but ends up getting lost in all the other sensations. The sounds, the smells, the _feel_.

He moans, mindless from the onslaught of stimuli.

His gasps fill the space between hungry lips and have the power to awaken and to hypnotize. Blood rushes through veins; brains drown in bliss and need and want.

Sheer want.

The wet, rhythmic sounds quicken, flesh slaps against flesh, loudly. He savours the sound, but his body only cares for _more!_ , _harder!_ , _faster!_

His back is a perfect arch, his neck bared for hungry teeth... lips... the tongue that soothes the small wound.

His skin shines, beads of sweat like countless constellations. He's high like the sky, his eyes dark and stormy, black like night. His body bruised like the silver globe that faintly illuminates the reds and purples blooming proudly on his skin.

He's falling.

Strong arms hold him through the shudders and he cries out, clinging to his beloved man, spilling his warm seed all over the both of them.

Such bliss could not possibly go silently.

* * *

His hands hold a book in his lap. The tome is heavy with words and drawings. The pages smell like great minds and unsatiated curiosity. A frown decorates his forehead, eyes full of scrutiny. He turns towards the piece of parchment on the small table beside him. Determined hand leads the raven-black quill, planting droplets of black ink that will soon give birth to understanding.

A pink tongue pokes out, his gaze losing focus behind his reading glasses when he dives into his thoughts.

His face tells so much. He can't hide his excitement.

He jumps off the comfy chair, a fountain of words on his lips as he marches over to a man whose hair shares the colour with his quill.

* * *

His hands are firm in the way they're gripping the broom he has mounted. Determination sharpens his features, draws shadows in his eyes. They're focused on his goal. The wind could not possibly catch him off guard. He cuts through the air with breathtaking swiftness. Body posed as he reaches towards the tiny golden ball, muscles tight, beads of sweat shimmering below his nose. The sun blinds him almost, but his fingers soon close themselves around the ball. Its wings flutter helplessly.

His face is an autograph of victory. He hears waves of cheers but only has eyes for one figure; his black hair pull his gaze like a magnet and his praiseful yells are the loudest.

* * *

Bare feet splash droplets of water, create waves on the calm surface. A big coyote rushes towards him. It drops a ball onto his outreached hand. They're both wet. He strokes the warm fur, love in his touch and praise on his lips. The moment fills suddenly with the sound of the toy cutting through the air, and the joyful panting as strong legs race to catch it and bring it back to him.

The wind is calm, the clouds are playful, the smell is fresh and the streak flows, cool and crystal clear.

He stretches lazily, basking in the spring.

* * *

The alley is deserted. Old, colourless wall supports him as he leans against it. His posture drips with nonchalance. A simple black suit hides his slender body; he might be a model for some top-notch clothing company. Graceful. Immaculate. Handsome.

An elegant hand reaches inside the pocket and brings a joint to the lighter. Lush lips wrap around one end. His features relax, his eyes become calm as they see nothing.

He inhales casually– 

and chokes on the nasty taste. Just like that, the whole nonchalance went to hell.

He coughs a little, before dropping the joint on the ground. He crushes it under his shoe with genuine passion. Fingers hooked on his belt and poker-face in place, he walks away, pretending nothing happened.

"Nice show", Albus snickers, watching the blond approach him.

Scorpius sticks his tongue out at his boyfriend in a playful manner.

"Told you I wouldn't be good at this one."

"What the hell, Malfoys are pure nonchalance in the human form!" Al laughs.

"Not this Malfoy."

"Still, though, we do have a nice collection of aesthetics," Al announces happily, browsing through the photos in his camera.

Scorpius smiles at him affectionately.

"That we do."

Al looks up at him then, cheekily like he tends to.

"Smile!" He wraps his arm around Scorpius' neck with a brilliant laugh that tugs at Scorpius' heart. And there goes the flesh.

Followed by a kiss.

Warm lips grace the freckled cheek and golden hair brush against darker skin. Green and grey meet along the way and they laugh. A swallow bird flies away into the vast sky above them.

* * *

"If you want to take pictures that will show who I am, then _you_ need to be on them as well."

Albus gave him a frown. "But it's supposed to be about _you_. If you want, you can certainly take pictures of me later and that way we'll have the both–"

"Because without you, I wouldn't have become who I am now."

The corners of Albus' lip quivered. "You're ruining my artistic vision," he complained.

But Scorpius knew what he's hiding.

"Not really. More like I'm adding something very crucial to it, that you forgot about, love."

* * *

_Rainbow in his breakfast._

Berries on his tongue.

_Sunshine swimming in his hair._

Pride in his voice.

_Rain on his cheek._

Arms around his neck.

 _He laughs._ They laugh. The world glows.

 _Things that take my breath away?_ You _are all of them._

**Author's Note:**

> This was a translation of my "Obrazy jego duszy". Hope you liked it!


End file.
